Razors Edge
by ShinigamiMailJeevas
Summary: His mind imagined hands reaching out, grabbing him, holding him, pulling him into the abyss of his past. As if he could have escaped...as if anything could have loved or hated him more than what made him this way. - Rated M for death and trigger material.


**An:** This is sort of personal, in a...ah...way. To get the feel of this you might want to listen to the song.

**Suggested Listening:** Razors Edge _**by**_ Digital Daggers

-**Razors Edge**-

He sat in the bath, the only sound the infrequent drips from the faucet by his toes. The water was cooling rapidly yet to him the temperature was the furthest from his mind—he did not even feel it.

His mind was focused on the argument from earlier. The innocent joking that turned to harsh poisonous words, wild gestures, and thrown objects. He flinched. That was not how it was supposed to be. He was not acting how he should.

His arms dug into his sides from where they were wrapped around him, head hung low. He kept his breathing under control in case, unlikely, but in case there was _anyone_ there to listen. He trembled. He loved _him_, he really did...but sometimes he wondered if he were too damaged, too _useless, emotionless,_ to commit to that.

To _everything_ offered.

The heavy, sick, painful feeling settled deep in his chest, in his soul, and ate away at him. It hurt to think. Yet his mind would not stop. Those eyes...that face...so disgusted and angry at him.

Tears dripped unbidden from his eyes and a silent scream ripped from his mouth, jerking him forward. If perhaps he was able to simply tell, _explain_ his chaotic thoughts, his experiences and just how fucked up it left him, maybe the escalation would not be so bad every time. He felt...like he was slipping. Letting the best thing in his life drop from his fingers and shatter on the floor like a fragile glass.

So many things to say...what others had done to him, emotionally, physically—things he was too embarrassed to tell to his face. All left lasting impressions (even as he knew that the perpetrators would barely remember him, never mind their actions, and if they did probably look upon them fondly without remorse, for they were the _shallow_ type) imprinted on his memory were never forgotten and always seemed to emerge in the least convenient moments. A single innocent comment taken the wrong way—old feelings surfacing, tearing at his flesh, at his esteem—and making him lash out.

He hid his face, his tears, even with no one to see the pain etched into his very core. To cry was to show they won, to show...his weakeness—that those callous actions actually meant something to him. Apathy was a great weapon. People were animals at heart, and when they got bored, their prey lifelessly awaiting the end, they would leave.

But that mentality, those scars, never left. And it was destroying what he had fought so painstakingly to keep.

There were secrets...kept so close he could almost believe the truth in his deceitful tongue. So utterly _trivial_ to stronger, more secure individuals. But he was not, and had never been strong. He was weak in every aspect. Not enviable..

He might as well be dead.

His breath caught in exhale. Maybe... he should be?

His mind imagined hands reaching out, grabbing him, holding him, pulling him into the abyss of his past. As if he could have escaped...as if anything could have _loved _or _hated_ him more than what made him this way.

Numbly, he reached across the cold bath water to grip the razor left there for far different purposes. It was easy to pop the blades free of the confines of the plastic covering.

He had never been able to do it before. Too afraid, to fucking childish to rid the world of himself. He had small scars to prove he was fucked in the head, too vulnerable to make it on his own. He was dependent on others. He dragged them down to his level, when they could easily surpass him.

His nose was stuffed, forcing him to breath through his mouth. He...hated himself. And at least a small portion always would...if he planned on living.

Shutting his eyes, body rocking in place, Matt dragged the razor down his arm.

-**End**-

**Disclaimer**: I do not own or make money from the anime Death Note


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